Author of Her Name is James

Month: July 2014

The house had a cellar
which was why it was bought.
It was filed with ropes
and other objects he’d sought.
He descended the stairs
to see the woman he’d caught,
who had gladly submitted
and now would be taught.
Near naked, supine,
dressed lightly in black,
arms outstretched
she lay on her back.

Wrists secured
to a steel scaffold pole,
her legs spread wide
but hiding his goal.
Satin hid pleasure,
his desire in check,
he walked to the woman
and caressed her neck.
She flinched at his touch,
his presence unseen.
Blindfolded for hours,
but still just as keen.

Flesh touched her lips,
she licked and she sucked,
he brushed at her panties
and swelled as she bucked.
Tied for an hour,
vibrations within,
her satin was soaked
but still she craved him.
His hand in her hair,
he thrust none to soft,
she gagged and gasped,
tried not to cough,
but the faster he moved
the deeper he drove.
His passion contagious
his fingers would rove.

He stopped all too soon
and despairing of joy,
she whimpered softly
as he withdrew the toy.
His face then replaced it,
his tongue danced around,
seeking her moisture
in the satin he’d found.
He tugged at the waistband
till she lay bare
and standing before her,
he speared her hard there.
She cried out in pleasure,
no longer denied
and howled out frustration
as he started to ride.

Not all was permitted,
one thing was hid,
one action of hers
was all he’d forbid.
He finished inside her,
still unsatisfied,
she writhed in a fury
and in rage, she cried.
She begged a release,
an end to the game
he laughed and derided
and called her a name.

Grasping her ankles
he bound them with rope,
raising them high
she had hint of hope.
Yet as her rear raised up
free of the wood,
her hopes fell around her
as she swore to be good.

He spanked her cheeks hard
with open palm,
she squealed and pleaded
but still he stayed calm.
He slowed in his torment,
admired the view
and then considered
what else he might do.

With the toy back inside her,
suspended, mid-air,
she hung immobile
as he returned to the stair.
His fourth visit now,
should all teasing cease?
Should he still keep her bound
yet permit her release?
They both had their pleasure,
they both had their fun
but it would be over
if he let her cum.
Her stipulation
written and signed.
Only his pleasure,
or the contract’s declined.

Natural born, moving in the wild, dressed to impress, She’s nobody’s child. Just stockings and heels amidst the trees. He peers and smiles watching Her tease. Dancing through bracken, swaying Her hips. She approaches slow then kisses his lips.

His heart pumps, starts to race. She grasps his hair, strokes his face. He takes the kiss responds in kind. Her stay is fleeting but he doesn’t mind.

At the base of the tree, securely bound, He sighs, contented, then lays on the ground. Her wish is his pleasure, Her pleasure, his pain. He has love; She has disdain. He waits for Her, and another day dawns, His body objects, complains and warns. Emaciated, faint and thin, live or die, no more than Her whim.

This isn’t an erotic poem but I make no apology for it. Please read my notes at the bottom of the poem.

Born in the wrong body, the tears ran down her cheek. Holding him so tightly, submissive and so meek. She has no feelings for him, laughs though he’s not funny. Playing at the role, desperate for his money. Her surgery’s expensive, and it’s the only skill she knows, praying for the moment he shoots his load then goes. Her ad names her transgender and he’s the third today. But she really isn’t happy because she really isn’t gay. The men who call to visit, pay to fuck with freaks. But it’s not the sex she’s after, love is all she seeks. She hates herself, just wishing that they could see inside. She’s hollow and so empty but they just pay for the ride.

He’s gone. Her façade shatters as she cries hard on the floor. Then heads back to the shower to prepare for number four. Standing in the bathroom, the mirror shows her pain. Staring at her body she cries and weeps again. The doorbell rings insistent. She pretends she cannot hear. She thought that she could manage when she first conquered her fear. The knocks and ringing stop, she returns now to her bed. The stains that show upon it make her wish that she were dead. Neither boy nor girl, she’s trapped now in a hell. to be the girl she wants she has just her rear to sell. She wants to be a woman and all that it could mean. Not just inside as is, but where it can be seen. But she can’t get there like this. She can’t be who she’s not, and that’s exactly what’s she’s done and she fears she can not stop. She wants to hunt down love and these men are not the ones. She wants to be a wife, with a husband and with sons. Her biology betrayed her, deformed her at her birth. Would she be better six feet under? Safe within the earth! The kitchen calls, she enters, doubtful of her life. She reaches in the drawer withdraws a long, sharp knife. Back on the bed still tearful the knife aimed at at her groin. Is this really all it takes? Does she really need their coin? The hospital will help her, if she’s in desperate need. But she can’t make the cut that would separate her seed. The knife falls to the floor and she wails into the night. Nobody will help her, none who know her plight. Her penis, limp before her is the object of her pain, the men will pay to play, but she can’t do that again. Lost in her confusion with no end for her in sight, she picks up pen and paper and slowly starts to write. Tears smudge the ink as from her heart she speaks, outlining all her failings and the forgiveness that she seeks.

The funeral was tragic few family, fewer friends. A short life spent in turmoil for who she was offends.

1 in 11,000 people are diagnosed with Gender Dysphoria. That’s over 5,000 people in the UK, 28,000 people in the U.S. That is just those diagnosed, it doesn’t take into account those who ignore their feelings about their identities. Those who suffer without saying, those who try and live ‘normal’ lives.

I am not among these numbers but I have a great sympathy for those who are. That is what my book ‘Her Name is James’ is essentially about (though James has very different experiences than the subject of this poem).

In Iran, surgery to correct gender for those diagnosed is encouraged. This from a society that condemns gay men and women for illegal acts. Yet, in the ‘civilised’ world, we point, stare and for some reason, think it funny to spot a woman with an Adam’s apple.